


The Rosen Bridge

by charms



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, WWI AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9853235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charms/pseuds/charms
Summary: When Babe Heffron wakes up from a wild Mardi Gras night, he's in Reims, France. A hundred years ago.





	1. One

Three men block the way Babe came, splitting the light from the parade.

“Nice night," Babe says.

The men spread like fingers to the edges of the snub-nosed alley opening and the smallest man speaks first, his voice echoing. His words are mocking, clipped, and in some other hard language.

"I got myself turned around," Babe says.

Bill has been learning Muay Thai for six years and he won’t shut his trap about how many guys he could take without a weapon. There were a couple of moves he tried to teach Babe. In theory, Babe can stop a short swing set for his jaw, he can crack his elbow across a fella’s nose at the right angle, and he might be able to land a punch without breaking his pinky finger. The extent of Babe's knowledge in self defense stretches just far enough to know that he's not going to win this fight. 

“Babe,” Bill had laughed when he saw Babe try to mimic him. “You’re lucky you got swift feet.”

There are three doors in the alley. The first is solid steel and wrung through with an iron chain. It leads into a dark, square building. The second door sits on a set of steps with potted plants and a dirty welcome mat. Lacy curtains block the windows, but a sliver of dim light fractions itself into glowing bands around the tapestry. In all likelihood, the door is locked with a series of deadbolts and any knocking would go unanswered at this hour.

“I don’t know what you’re saying. Do you know English? Or Spanish? I learned a bit of Spanish in high school. Por favor? Uh, por favor no me mates?”

A flick of silver catches the light and Babe’s eye. The man in the middle, a head shorter than the tallest man and a head taller than Babe, holds a glint of metal. A fucking knife.

“Listen, fellas, let’s not get hasty. Let’s not do anything our mothers would disapprove of.”

The third door is tucked underneath the second door’s stairs, around the bend of the building’s sunken gutter. It sags into the brick and to a quick eye it’s almost invisible. The door is a wire frame, propped open by a fist-sized boulder to reveal a dark shop enterance with four glim letters blinking above it that say ‘open’.

As the smallest man takes a running leap at him, Babe bolts to the wall. All three of the men start as he slips through the door, charging toward him with the force of thunder. The smallest is fast enough to grab the sleeve of Babe’s hoodie before they submerge into the dark. Babe can’t see his own hand in front of him and can’t stop violent, solid contact with the first obstacle past the doorway. His hips smack into hard wood and his head knocks into glass. The small man tumbles after him, losing his footing and dropping onto his ass. Babe jerks his jacket free before he can get dragged down and veers left into a blind sprint. He makes it half a dozen steps before his kneecap hits metal and for a handful of seconds he sees light again, an unimaginable, unbearable brightness that makes him want to puke on the soft carpet he finds himself fisting. He takes a breath. Every gulp of air tastes of incense and catches in his throat like smoke but he greedily sucks in. He can’t feel his leg yet, but he knows it’s going to hurt.

Babe chokes when he feels hands on him again, and he races to stand when a heavy body tries to pin him. He wants to kiss Bill straight on the lips when Babe’s elbow crunches directly onto the guy’s nose with pure instinctual power. As soon as the hands fall off him, Babe jumps forward, dropping onto a short table and sliding onto the floor on the other side. When his leg twists, there is a pulse of pain from his knee that pounds like jackhammers. 

“Fuck me,” Babe gasps.

Glass breaks. The other two men barrel around the room and shout to each other in their big, bulky laungage. One of them is spitting and whimpering as he retreats behind his friends to nurse his broken nose. Babe takes pride in the tears he hears as he wipes his own away.

Babe won’t risk standing with his knee starting to stiffen and swell. He anchors his hands to the next solid posts he feels and drags himself forward. The second dresser leg he grabs snaps with the first tug of his body weight. 

Babe can hear the drop of symmetry in the dresser as loose knick knacks roll in their drawers. The slide of skinny glass follows, then the hail of books, wood, empty bottles of liquor and booze, and then the whole dresser teeters over his head before caving. The thunk sounds worlds worse than it feels. A section of his shoulder blades is slammed with bruises, but the heaviest of the dresser lands on the metal table he tripped over and triangles him into a tight hole of shattered glass and novelty items. The men don’t hesitate, they surge toward the noise, stumbling into the dresser and knocking it closer to pressing its full weight on Babe. 

A massive grip catches Babe's ankle. He can’t hold back a yelp. 

He holds tight onto the leg of the other dresser he’s still hooked to, praying it holds steady. His hurt knee screams as it’s tugged straight and Babe wants to cry when the man’s second hand comes wrenching up behind his knee cap for better traction. Babe tries to kick, even gets a bit of purchase on the third punt, but can’t budge any distance between his quickly sapping strength and the peaking rage of the guy that’s got him. 

Babe brings a fistful of glass with him when he’s yanked backwards. His eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dark so he relies on pure dumb luck when he swings his whole weight into a solid punch. He catches the corner of a jaw but most of the damage glances off. At the end of his fist, the razor edge of the glass catches skin and draws forward in a long, satisfying tear before Babe is caught by the elbow. Babe’s elbows are locked in place by the man. The leg he can’t seem to move an inch left or right is either trapped fully under the guy’s body weight or now broken. Babe is wrestled into stillness as he feels the pulse of blood from his palm, the disagreement from his leg at the stiff angle it’s folded, the aching of his skull, and the thick sheen of sweat and clotted blood on his face. 

The yelling might be the most unbearable part. It’s catastrophic and right in his face, engulfing him with the smell of hot liquor and a New Orleans supper, loud enough to leave his ears ringing. He can’t think around it, and he can’t remember where he’s supposed to aim his strike or that he needs to hold onto his weapon. It’s as if the ground itself is shuddering under this man’s voice. The chunky smell of onion, garlic, and sweetness make Babe want to hurl. His stomach turns and growls with malice. 

It surprises him to find his footing again, to limp into the chest of the man as he’s dragged to his feet by the crook of his arm and the collar of his shirt. Babe comes up stumbling, then swinging. He launches his fist square into the first bit of skin he feels and is dropped back, caught again by his shoulder and yanked forward.

“Babe!”

“Bill!” Babe would swear on it. He knows that voice better than he knows his own, better than he’d know the voice of the Virgin Mary or God himself. He wants to cry with relief, and he wants to start swinging because fuck that bastard for letting him get himself into this mess.

“Get to running! Kick dirt, kid! Let’s go!”

Bill drags him through the sea of black quickly. Babe laughs, because of course if anyone could see in this hell it would be Bill Guarnere. 

“How’d you find me?” Babe chokes.

“How’d I find you? I just thought of the stupidest place I could be and headed straight over.”

Babe trips over the his stiff leg every few steps, but Bill’s grip is concrete. They weave deeper into the room, around blocks of books and crates on the floor until they reach the far wall. Babe hugs it tight, pressing his hot face into cold cement.

“C’mon,” Bill grunts. “Watch your feet.”

A whistle of Mardi Gras fireworks crackles outside; they’re close enough to the door to hear the bang. Bill takes on most of Babe’s weight as he hauls them up a flight of stairs. He pulls Babe to face him when they reach the top, leaning Babe against the thin wood door and patting him over. Babe listens for the sound of following footsteps but can’t hear anything over the shriek of celebration.

The smells are unbelievably getting stronger, as if garlic and onion matched the consistency of car exhaust and the incense were a billowing fire. Babe can’t fully fill his lungs. His back still aches where the dresser cracked down and he hopes against hope that his ribs are undamaged and the spasms in his chest pass.

“Where’s your mask?” Bill hisses, “You’re a fucking lunatic, running around without it.”

“If you’re hoping to lose them in the crowd, we need to pick up the pace.”

Bill clinches the wrinkled collar of Babe’s shirt, face close enough to feel warm breath. He smells like sawdust and dirt.

“C’mon,” Bill grunts again.

On Bill’s quick direction, Babe stands with his back to the opposite wall and listens to the thud of Bill’s shoulder against the frame. A crack of light trembles with the shake of the door, light from the outside where the parade floods the street with candlefire, bright beams of golden lamps, and a brilliant clamor. Bill swears as the stiff lock on the other side holds fast. Bill throws his full weight into the next slam and a crack fractures up the door. More light spills into the room, catching a cloud of thick dust and the square of Bill’s jaw.

“Hold tight,” Bill puffs. He lunges hard, head ducked like a linebacker, and the door splinters open.

Sunshine eats away the dark and the edges of Babe’s sight until the tips of his vision blackens again. He burrows his nose into the sleeve of his jacket, blinking white spots away. Bill catches him by the elbow and drags him into an overwhelmingly bright day. 

"Bill," Babe can't finish his thoughts.

A man shouts in the distance. Babe jumps and pivots, expecting the men to have followed them out. He swings wildly, tripping over empty space, breath hitching. He tries to squint through his sun-blotched sight as the echoes patter off empty streets. The voice sounds farther away when it comes again, strong, scared, and decidedly German. Bill stops them against the cool shadow of a tall building and Babe is suddenly aware of the crackling, rock-sliding crunch of their footsteps and how loud they are breathing.

Where Babe expected the calls and clutter of New Orleans, he finds a void. His own staggered panting is deafening compared to the ringing of nothing. Far, far away, a stone crumbles down a rock cliff, Bill’s fingers squeak into Babe’s clothes as they grip tighter, and even the protest of Babe’s own joints are so loud.

“You okay, Babe?”

“Can’t fucking see.”

Bill’s fingers are so dry they catch on Babe’s smooth cheek. He prods roughly at the tender pockets of Babe’s eyelids until he’s smacked away.

“We’ll be back at base in a hop and a skip.” Bill says, “Can you walk?”

“No harm in trying.”

“How you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a freight train.”

Bill has the nerve not to hide his chuckles as he lifts Babe back to his feet and keeps him tight to the shadows on their slow, clumsy pursuit, hopefully, toward a hospital. Babe’s leg is stiffer now; it will take about half of his weight before it buckles, so Babe keeps a steady limp and leaves his right foot with most of the work. Bill remains dutifully at his side, his shoulder jutting close if Babe needs it and his palm still tucked under Babe’s bicep.

A whisper jerks Bill to a stop. 

It’s a quick, hoarse, “Flash!”

“Thunder.” Bill snaps, “Get your happy ass hauling, Donald. Babe here needs to get back to camp. Give me a hand, would you.”

“I’m busy, Gonorrhea.” Comes the distant hiss.

“Get unbusy.”

Donald comes, swearing up a storm, hooking Babe’s other elbow over his shoulders to drag him quickly across a rubble torn road. Babe has the same two-inch height advantage on him that he holds over Bill, now it’s enough to make him feel like he’s squatting awkwardly on his knee to let them take his weight. It’s painful to keep up with their hurried walk, and when Babe is back against a wall a few strides later he’s sweating and out of breath. Bill holds Babe's shoulder to the wall as they regroup, and Babe is grateful. Most of Babe’s weight comes teetering forward without his permission and Bill’s strong grip is the only thing that keeps him off the ground.

“What the hell did you two get up to,” Donald says, “You look like a building collapsed on you, Babe. And Bill, don’t even get me started. Where are your masks? Don’t tell me you’ve been running around without them.”

“Misplaced it.”

“Lip is going to have your hide. I can smell it in the air, Guarnere. What’s wrong with Babe?”

“Can’t see,” Bill says. “He’s fine. Just a bit of dust.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that. He’s fine.”

“Just get out of here. I’m not too fond of the color of the sky, it’s not safe.”

“You heading to the front?”

“I’m heading East. There’s a group by the chapel offering supplies.”

“Where’s the rest of your group?”

“I’m it.”

“What do you mean you’re it! Where’s the rest of you? Where’s Penkala and Muck? Are you out here on your own?”

“You need to get Babe back, Bill.”

“I’m getting him back right now, who’s close to us?”

“Randleman’s boys have a post down the west street, Lieb and Tipper were stationed a block back, I think I saw Talb darting between fleabags down the road a ways.”

“You stay here a minute, don’t you leave or I’ll come hunting you. I’m gonna drop Babe off with the closest friendly face and whatever Malarkey you need done, we'll get it done together.”

“Go.”

“Malark.” Bill warns.

“Go, I’ll be here.”

Babe tips forward into Bill when the weight of his support disappears. Bill pulls him back against his side, taking more of his weight than before, even threatening to lift Babe off his feet with relentless encouragement to get him moving again. Bill is gentle, but not patient, as they stride back into the beat of the sun before Babe’s leg can stiffen back up. 

“Come back with a mask or don’t come back at all!”

Bill gestures over his shoulder.

“I mean it,” Donald calls, “I’m not dragging your dumb ass back to base because you’re shit hot.”

“Don’t get comfy, I’ll be back toot sweet.”

“I won’t miss you.”

“Fucking Mick,” Bill rages fondly.

Halfway up a slope of thick rocks, Babe looses his footing. Bill slams the heel of his hand under Babe’s floating ribs to catch him inches off the ground. The grunt of his apologetic curse is swallowed by the clap of heavy concrete against the ground and the smoke of a cloudburst dirt hail. Babe swallows clay and dust; he panics, gasps, and catches dirt between his teeth, cramping his lungs and neck around the rocks he has to swallow. Immediately, up and down become unimaginable distinctions, but he still feels Bill against him, steady as a mountain.

Bill’s words are lost among the whip of air and the shake of the earth. Unsure of any direction, Babe lets Bill drag him. Rumbling follows their quick crawl across the slope, even as they hug tight to the next building and slip onwards. As the explosion starts to ebb away another thunders beside them, close enough that Babe can feel the wall against their back teeter and the sharp bite of rock prick at his skin. Bill rockets off, dragging Babe from the base of the building and back into the open between heartbeats. The crack of the wall falling clears the air and Babe chokes.

Babe thinks he screams, “What the fuck is happening!”

Another blast peals aside street a block away, and more explosions drum up and down the line of buildings they just passed. Bill keeps running.

“Bill!” 

Babe hears the voice around the barrage, clear and cutting. He swerves in that direction before Bill.

Babe feels it out with his hands splayed in front of him until the air is cold and has settled around him. From in front, hands grab him and Babe startles, reaching back for Bill’s support, and Bill is there, forcing him into the hands and into the darkness. Babe lunges, hoping to catch the hands off guard and gain the advantage.

“Heffron, shit,” the voice says, the same familiar comfort.

“Sorry.” 

Babe calms, clasping the hands that hold him, trying to find his balance and footing in deep, dark black now that the pink of his closed, lucent eyelids have lost the light again. 

“It’s fucking grim in here,” Bill says.

“Real poetry, Bill.”

“You should take some advice from that scrawny slugger of yours and shut your goddamn trap, Webster.”

“Is this really the time, boys?”

“Harry,” Bill says, “It is damn good to see you.”

“I can’t imagine how you possibly manage to look worse than the last time I saw you. You dragged Babe into it this time?”

“I found this guy under a building a few blocks up.”

“Are you okay?”

It takes the heaviness of the silence to unsettle Babe, to get his skin prickling enough to realize he’s been addressed. The noise outside has dissipated and once again the world falls into an underwater sort of quiet.

“What?” Babe coughs.

“Are you okay, Babe?”

“I’m not sure, if I’m honest with you.” Bill’s hand, Babe realizes it's still encircled around his elbow, tightens. “I’m fine.”

“Babe,” Bill sounds breathless.

“Get him back to base.” Webster says.

“Where’s Roe?” Bill snaps, “Haven’t seen him haunting town.”

“He’s been dragged behind the line, The Flu came overnight. We’re getting sick in the hundreds.”

“Last I saw Roe was three days ago, he said there was nothing to worry about.”

“Three days ago there _was_ nothing to worry about..”

“Where the hell are we supposed to take Babe, then? Some Tommy?”

“Get him behind the line, they’ll sort him out.”

“I’m not gonna see him thrown into that hole with rats and vomit.”

“Bill, Roe is there.” Bill’s protests are stifled and his outrage withered when Harry’s voice softens, “Babe will be taken care of.”

Bill’s grip melts into the darkness and Harry’s hands find Babe, then Webster’s as Babe is passed, limping, down the line and deeper into their cave. It feels so good to sit among the rocks that Babe can’t imagine getting back to his feet again. 

“You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

“Where are you off to?” Harry sounds reserved.

“I’m off to keep Malark from doing something stupid by himself.”

“So you thought he needed company to do something stupid?”

“You know me.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Harry says, “You stay safe. Stay smart.”

“You too, and Babe, you don’t even think about getting up to no good while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dare to, Bill.”

Bill hesitates, half out of the cave, breath hitching, “Babe,”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Webster kneels in front of Babe, he tests the strength of Babe’s leg with the press of the pads of his thumbs and then sweeps his dry hands over Babe’s tender cheeks.

“I have some water, hold on.” 

Webster wrestles around with material until he finds a bottle. He gathers Babe’s hands into a bowl and splashed enough water to wet them. Babe rubs the clumping concrete dust onto his jacket, lets Webster fill his hands again, then rubs the cool water over his head so it pours over his hair and onto his eyes. Webster pours a bit more straight onto his forehead and Babe scrubs at his eyes and the dirt and dried blood that have clotted into one big mass. As the mess peels away the irritation of his skin becomes obvious, a heat like welts has welled around his eyes, in his nose, and across his cheeks. Sore, boiling blisters swelter over his sweaty skin, and he finds them stretching further, across his wetting back and down his shoulders. 

“Fuck,” Babe hisses, “What the fuck.”

“You got it bad, Babe.” Webster consoles, “We got you. We’ll get you back to base.”

“What the fuck is happening.” Babe swallows back panic. 

He doesn’t remember an injury the alley men could have delivered that would bubble across his skin. He doesn’t know why he’s blinking away fistfuls of wet dirt, or why the earth is shaking on and off. He flinches when Webster holds his shoulder, pulling away, withholding a snarl, withholding a snap of ferocious demands of Webster’s and Harry’s identity.

Instead he says, “Where’s Bill?”

“He’s gone,” Webster sounds worried.

“Are you okay to walk, Babe?” Harry says.

It has become so natural to tell Bill that he is always, absolutely fine that Babe is not sure how to say outloud that he’s definitely not. Bill is gone, leaving him with nobodies, Babe’s beautiful Mardi Gras buzz is gone, his kneecap is busted, every bone in his body won’t listen to him fast enough to keep his head off the wall or his feet moving, the heat in his burns could be sizzling and popping, and, Christ, a second ago the sky was falling. Opening his eyes, he can make out a sliver of golden sunshine between the slabs of a collapsed building and Webster's concerned frown, deep enough to wrinkle. Webster is wearing an old camo jacket and a tin helmet, his shoulders are squared with frequent heavy weight. The smell of him is unwelcome and a long-day sort of hot. 

“I can see, so we’re moving in the right direction,” Babe hopes. 

“I won’t give it two minutes before another fire strike starts, we should get out of here.” Harry says.

Webster bustles Babe’s feet under him, but his squat doesn’t last; Babe takes his weight on one knee as they stand.

“Can you walk?” Harry asks again.

“I don’t know.” Babe whispers, “Can you just call someone? Can you just get me a ride to the hospital?”

“Yeah, Babe.” Harry tucks his hand under Babe’s armpit and helps him sit back against the wall again. He calls, “Webster. Go down the road, grab a medic and a stretcher.”

“Roe?”

“See if you can find anyone. Spina, Roe, I don’t care.”

Babe’s head is full of lead and he rests it between his shoulder and the wall. Across the street, through the locked concrete that makes up their cave, an old, white building beams under sunlight. It is tall, famished, and dirty. The shattered windows are hollow inside, and potted plants die on the sills. Babe sees a man, a soldier, hop down the front steps two at a time, fixing his helmet over his head and flicking to light a match for his cigarette. He looks up, sees Babe and Harry, then Web, and smirks.

A bomb pierces from the blue sky. The high-pitched whistle comes after the first crash of the shell against the building. The soldier whips around within the heartbeat of the first and second wave, his cigarette is crushed between his teeth, and then he is lost in a burst of glass and bricks.

Webster and Harry are on their feet, pulling each side of Babe with them toward the mouth of their hideaway before the dust settles. They are faster than the smoke that follows the breeze that comes from the trenches just up the mountain, revealed in the skyline as the building crumbles. The two of them run together with half of Babe’s dead weight lugged over their shoulder. Webster pulls on a tight, old gas mask. Harry tugs his over Babe’s head and Babe wrestles it off, unable to stand the smell of latex and the pull on his blistered skin. 

“It’s purple!” Web's voice is muffled.

“There was a man!” Babe yells over the grinding building.

“Where?”

“Someone was at the base of the building!”

Harry shoots Webster a frightened look, “Who was it?”

“Dunno.” Babe chokes, “Some soldier.”

“Joe?” Harry hisses.

“I don’t know!” 

Webster drops Babe’s right side and swivels. Harry holds the loose weight higher and Babe gratefully finds his footing. Over his shoulder, Babe can see the smoke drawing into alleys and slinking low across the ground. The fog is violet-black and thinning where the skeleton building surfaces like a blackened, forest fire oak. Webster lifts his mask.

“Joe!” he yells.

“Liebgott!” Harry tries, "Tipper!"

In the responding silence, humming settles from the skies and Babe sees planes with big, open bellies and stubby noses. Harry spots them faster and he’s already turning away, pulling Babe with him, and begging Webster to follow. 

“Web,” he pleads, “Let’s go.”

“Joe!” Webster’s voice cracks, but the building doesn’t answer.

Harry hauls Babe across the street, following the line of empty barbershops and cafes on the sidewalk.

“Web, let’s go! Web!”

The foul smoke has trickled only feet from Webster’s boots but he’s rooted to where he stands. 

The pressure to vomit rushes Babe like adrenaline. He can’t swallow it back, he can only be glad he pushed away Harry’s gas mask as he’s sick on the street. Harry rubs the sweat out of Babe’s eyes when he’s finished, adjusting his hold against Babe’s bruised ribs until Babe wants to cry. The nausea is gone with his upturned stomach, but the taste of acid is as strong as the sweet smell of flowers on the breeze and his stomach knots at the mix.

Webster sinks against Babe’s side. His fingers are unsteady when they curl into him. Babe doesn’t look at him; he can feel thick despair on him and Babe knows he’ll be sick again if he has to see it on his face. 

Harry leads and he makes quick work of the hundred yards between them and the next building. 

Two more tin helmets pop around the side of the building and rush them with waving hands and whispered shouts. Harry ducks his head and half-sprints against the wall, anchoring Web so he’s first to supporting hands, and Babe is second.

When Harry speaks again, it’s like Babe’s head is pressed against an aquarium. 

Babe is festering and falling against the dirt, holding his head, his arms, and then the air around him in large, defensive gestures. Everything begins to blur. Babe’s head luls, a hundred pounds of mud. Strong hands hold him and Babe can’t see who it is, can’t thank him, can’t tell him that Babe’s so damn sick of sitting on the floor.

Someone whispers in his ear, “Edward.”

The soft voice is overwhelmed by the soldiers, and their deep, heavy voices, “Heffron!”

“Get him somewhere to lay down!”

“Get him a medic!”

“Where’s Roe!”

“At the back!”

“Move all this!”

"Clear the table!"

“Heffron, you still with us?”

But the soft voice says again, “Edward, your mom is on her way.”


	2. Two

"Where's Bill?" 

The doctor signs her charts and moves Babe's fluids to peek at his machines.

Her accent is thick, "is Bill the man who brought you into the hospital?" 

"I think so?"

"What do you remember from that night?"

"I was drinking with my friends. A group of us came down from Philly. I split from the boys to find a bathroom and a couple guys followed me down a wrong turn. They jumped me in an alley. I don’t remember getting away from them, after that I was waking up here."

"Nothing else?"

"I had the strangest dream, Doc."

"That's one of the side effects of the drug that we used put you in your coma."

"Right," Babe's throat is dry. "And Bill?"

"Your two friends brought you into my ER. They left as soon as my nurses took you into their care. I do not know where your friends went, but when they left they were very angry. I do not know of any trouble they got themselves into after that."

"It's been four days and he hasn't been back?"

"Now is not the time to worry about that, Edward. We had you asleep for the worst of your recovery, but that does not mean your journey is finished. We called your mother in Philadelphia after you were stabilized on Tuesday and she should be here by noon tomorrow."

"She ain't mad at me, is she?"

The doctor smiles. “how do you feel?"

"I'd kill for a glass of water."

"I will ask someone to bring you some. How is your head?"

"I have no complaints about these pain killers you got me on.” Babe feels murky, “you must have heard that joke about a thousand times now."

"Feels like more."

Babe doesn't laugh because there are a dozen places on his body that feel like they would pop out of place if he moves. He still grins, still pulls at the stitching in his cheek.

"We removed much of your machinery this morning, but this does not mean you can be up and walking around. I do not want to hear from my nurses that you've been on your feet. I can list your injuries if that will dissuade you from disobeying."

"I'd rather not have nightmares tonight. I'll stay in bed."

She looks down to her waist when her pager beeps. She snaps her clipboard to the foot of Babe’s bed and pulls the curtains.

“I’ll be back to check on you in the morning,” she warns. “Get some sleep, Edward.”

The silence of the room is so obvious it hurts. 

"Doc," he calls before she can close off his room.

She stops, "Would you like me to leave the door open?"

Babe is transparent, but he thankfully whispers, "yeah."

She pulls his curtains closed, and leaves the door open for the sounds of the hallways to buzz and softens the ringing in Babe's ears. Babe's IV tree beeps along with a green blinking light, and his computers whir. The lights over Babe's bed are low, but the pitch makes his head feel hollow and sensitive. 

The lights on the other side of the room are off but more monitors hum.

"Hey," Babe says to the dark.

Babe shifts to get a better look, and it is not pain that stops him, but a thick, cloudy pressure in all of his muscles and joints. Babe is gentle lifting the blankets off his chest and bunching them at his side. The amount of black and yellow in his skin surprise him. His healing bruises look ugly and half-faded. They run from his toes to his neck, probably further. The white gauze around his chest feels like the only thing holding his ribs in place, and the bones do not hurt, but they feel loose and soft, like they're floating. The palms of his hands are scabbed over with rug burn and his long cuts are pulled closed with stitches. Babe can only clench his hands half way before his injuries feel like they will pop open. 

There is a bruise on the center of his chest in the shape of a big boot. Babe traces the heel line with careful fingers.

"Good to see you awake, Mr Heffron," the nurse closes the curtains behind him and uses Babe's dinner table to write on a thick manila file. "You're looking much better."

"If by 'much better' you mean less dead, sure."

The nurse looks up and huffs a noise between laughter and a sigh, on a razor's edge. The weight of his gaze only lasts a flicker of a second before they flash to Babe's monitors.

"I can't imagine I'll ever be one color again. I look like some kid's finger painting project."

"I've seen worse."

"Then you're gonna need some goddamn therapy. You don't have to call me any of the Mr Heffron bullshit, by the way," Babe corrects. "My friends call me Babe."

The nurse has cold fingers and when he checks the IV line in the crook of Babe’s elbow, Babe gets goosebumps. Babe watches the nurse’s hands (small, pale, strong) stop at the pulsepoint on his wrist. Babe doesn't risk talking until the nurse pulls away and writes his findings in the file.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

"What can I call you?"

"Eugene. Roe." Eugene dismisses, "Dr Lemaire told me she didn't get a chance to go over your injuries with you."

"I mean, she covered all the bases."

"Do you have any questions?"

"None that I actually want answered. I mean, I'm alive. I think I can backburner some of the rest for now."

Eugene returns to his paperwork.

"I mean, I do have one question."

Eugene clicks his pen closed and slips it into one of the many pockets of his blue scrubs.

"By any chance do you know where my friend Bill went? The guy who brought me in?"

"The Italian?"

"Yeah!"

"He's being processed by a Louisiana jail."

"No shit?"

"An hour after we stabilized you, he came back to the hospital in handcuffs to get his knuckles looked at. I stitched him back together while the men he had beaten were intubated. He was with another man, I don't remember his name."

"Was Bill alright?"

"Sure was."

Babe feels himself unclench. His shoulderblades, neck, teeth, all feel worn with relief.

"Good to know."

Eugene fishes the TV remote from under Babe's mattress and shows him the nurse call button, "That's your button to me."

"And the lights," Babe flicks them on and off.

"And the TV," Eugene agrees, glancing to the curtain where Babe's silent roommate remains silent. "Try to get some sleep."

Babe finds The Price is Right on channel 8 before Eugene can make it to the curtains with his big, manila folder. Bob Barker sets up the stage as Eugene flicks the curtains closed behind him. The door never fully closes, and a crack of light filters through. 

“Can you get me some water?” Babe asks the doorway.

The TV flashes as the guest spins the wheel and the flickering gold and hot rod red are hard to look at. The clacking of money and jackpots itch at Babe’s head. Babe fiddles with the remote, brushing his finger lightly over the nurse call button before switching the channel to reruns of Friends, then to a wildlife documentary, then to static, then to static, then to static.

When the TV crackles to black Babe feels small and wide awake in his blackened room. 

The noise in the hall gets louder: funneled rush of shoes and machinery and the beeping of pagers. Under the hospital smells, under the alcohol and cleaner, Babe catches the hint-smell of death. As soon as he notices it he can't un-notice it. It's nauseating; it rolls his stomach. The remote tucks underneath the bed handle and onto the floor and now it is too far out of reach. Babe would call for Eugene but the back of his throat feels swollen with the pressure to vomit. The rotting smell filters past the medicine, growing stronger with each breath until Babe is gagging and reaching for a basket. 

Cold hands pull on him by the chest, pressing him backwards. 

Babe is on the floor of a beautiful church. The ceilings are dimly rimmed with Monet pastel sunlight glowing through stained glass. A sucking wet noise picks up around groans and a mess of chatter in the corners of the cathedral. It smells a mix between a landfill and an ashtray.

The soldier who pushed Babe down presses his red thumb pad to Babe's forehead and drags a capital "G" above his eyebrows in someone else's blood. The soldier stands quickly and moves away. 

There are rows of men on the floor, some splayed on white sheets or folded quilts, but most, like Babe, lay on jackets crusted with clotted blood. The man directly next to Babe is dead, his eyes stare up at the ceiling like he is mesmerized, but the light is gone, and his jaw is slack. Babe looks away, stares straight up at the huge, archaic Virgin Mary, who stretches her arms out in an embrace of her baby Jesus.

Babe blinks the tears out of his eyes and grunts against the returning pain: his skin, the blisters, his eyes as they burn, the lining of his trachea, inside his nose.

It is hard to breathe. Babe is wheezing with ratty lungs and his chest heaves weakly for an overwhelmingly long minute, until another soldier, one row down and two men over, begins to sob. Babe tilts his head, his mouth gaped open, to watch the man struggle to sit up. The soldier crunches his stomach and scrapes the floor for traction, head ducking for leverage, but he cannot lift his upper body. Babe’s breath scratches in his throat, and his lips don’t move to form the words he needs. He watches the man stand and fall as two more soldiers rush to his side.

"Please," the little, blond soldier begs. "God, please help me. I can't see. I can't see and my stomach hurts."

"Get a medic."

They wrestle the crying soldier down.

Babe recognizes Eugene, dashing across the sanctuary with another soldier at his heels. Eugene skids to his knees at the whimpering soldier's side, patting him down once before looking into his eyes. He looks into his airway, squinting at the dark, and checks his pulse.

"Calm down, Blithe," his voice is soft. "I got you." 

Blithe has an "S" written in charcoal on his forehead; he smears it with the back of his sweaty hand. Blithe reaches for Eugene, grips his shoulders and whispers into his ear.

Eugene takes Blithe’s gun away.

"Help me lift him," Eugene orders the two standing soldiers as he draws Blithe's back against his chest and lifts him by his armpits. One of the soldiers grab his feet and the other clears a path as they move together, past the altar, into the cathedral halls.

The room is quieter, darker now, blurring with Babe's sight. 

"It's fake," Babe whispers, relieved. "A dream. This is a dream, a drug-induced dream. This is not real."

Babe wakes from a sudden sleep, breath catching.

There is a scratch of cloth beside his ear and Babe moves to find his blanket, expecting the pull of his IV lines. He opens his eyes, and jumps away from the swollen face dropped in front of him. It is a man - a boy - or used to be. His tongue is swollen out of his mouth, his eyes are bulging and sightless, his nostrils and mouth are rimmed blue. Babe turns away until he hears the pulling cloth again, the dead soldier being dragged away.

Babe does not know how long he has been asleep, but the sun has gone down and all the light in the church comes from the hundred lit chapel candles scattered around the chancel. 

Babe is lost in a coughing fit that strips his throat and leaves his mouth tasting like phlegm and chemicals. The weight on his chest is heavy and limits his breathing until he's only living on half-breaths. He lifts his hands and watches his wet sores glisten in the candle light. He tries not to gag.

A line of serious-faced soldiers stand against the far wall, some are speaking in low voices as others look asleep on their feet. They hold their old rifles with their fingers off the trigger and the barrel toward the floor, but the butts of their gun sit on their shoulders. The only people moving are a couple of medics who pass quickly to patients like bees to flowers, and the dozen women who swab at open wounds and bark to one another in patient, orderly French. Some women move with buckets of rust-colored water and damp rags, others have mugs of brown water that they offer to wounded soldiers.

Babe peers up at the smothering darkness, to the stained glass ceiling he cannot see anymore, and he prays to the Mother of the God he was raised with that he will wake up and the smell of gore and mud will be replaced. He prays for the squeak of nurse shoes, the hum of distant ventilators, the smell of clinical alcohol. 

Another wounded soldier inherits the spot of the dead soldier who was dragged away. A nurse comes to peel white-now-brown sheets from the soaked floor and rings the piss and blood into a bucket. She mops the area with the sheet, on her hands and knees, and covers it with a jacket that has four holes between the chest pockets.

The soldier who is laid down on the floor next to Babe has a smirk on his lips. Babe remembers: Web, Henry, the soldier from the building who was lost in his last dream - the one with the cigarette between his teeth and the building creaking behind him.

"Joe?" Babe is almost sure of his name.

Maybe he's wrong - the soldier doesn't acknowledge him.

"A Catholic church in France."

"Joe," Babe says.

The soldier is disgusting. His neck is raw and gorey, his hands are welted to the tips of his fingers, parts of his arms swell with water blisters, and his exposed chest is wet with sweat and blain. His matted hair is slicked back, and he blinks his eyes open to stare straight up and nowhere else. He grips a golden chain in one hand.

The beeping, blaring hospital machines begin when Babe pinches his eyes closed. 

Babe is back in the hospital. 

"Shut the fuck up. Are you gonna be this goddamn loud all night?"

Babe looks around for the pitcher of water he was promised and sees it on a tray across the room.

"Sorry," Babe tells the curtains. "I had a weird dream."

"I don't care."

"What time is it?"

"I don't fucking care."

His roommate sits up and his shadow moves to the window. It is light enough outside to cast a shadow on the divider between them. The window slides open before there's a flick of a lighter and a cool breeze. The air outside is humid, but fresher than what the bottle hospital AC is recycling.

The curtains open and Joe Liebgott looks Babe over. His burns and blisters are neatly wrapped in sterile gauze and his stitches are tucked and groomed, but the rough edges of all his skin damage cannot be hidden under any number of dressing. Most of his face is untouched, but a lot of his neck is grated with red hot tenderness and burns that have closed. Some of his hair is missing in tufts, and the burns on his body look deeper, but he looks much healthier than in Babe's dream.

Joe hobbles back to his window sill to flick ash off his cigarette.

"You look fucking gross," Joe says.

"Says the fucking art piece?"

"Compared to you, I belong in a museum."

"You look like something I scraped off my bar-b-q once."

"You look like something I'd need scraped off my tire."

"If I saw you on the street, I'd mercy kill you."

"And I'd thank you for it. Cigarette?"

"Please."

Joe looks like he's thinking about walking over, but after a second he tosses Babe his pack and his Zippo. 

“I’m Joe.”

“Babe Heffron.”

“A building fell on me. Why are _you_ here?”

“I got the shit kicked out of me during Mardi Gras.”

“That’s a good story to tell. In a few years.”

“You smoke cheap shit."

"If you don't want them, give them back."

"Come over here and take them from me, buddy."

Joe laughs a bit around his filter. He points to an empty bed pan when babe looks for something to tap ash in after Babe's first, long drag. Babe’s chest aches with the deep draw. He chokes on the exhale, but the light in his lungs makes his head spin with relief. He tosses Joe is half-full pack back and catches a glimpse of red writing on the lighter before he throws it, too.

"Oakland Fire Department?"

Joe tucks his lighter and cigarettes into his luggage at the end of his bed.

"Did you get burned on the job?"

"Same night you came in, I was working in a building that went down."

"That's some bad luck."

"To be alive to complain about it is kinda nice," Joe hacks and spits out the window. He stands tenderly, limping to Babe's side and sits in an empty chair beside his rails. He's wearing sweatpants underneath his gown and Babe pulls his blankets closer, knowing he's not as lucky. 

"Why are you in New Orleans?"

"Looking for work in more interesting, and estranged places. I figured the architecture down here in Louisiana wouldn't hold up as well under fire and I wanted work to be less predictable and safe. Not to mention the weather here, I love sweating my ass off carrying gear that weighs more than your average high schooler. Nothing’s better than a lethal level of humidity. And," Joe pauses to smoke. "I might have made the huge mistake of following someone."

"A girl?"

"A fucking trainwreck," Joe's growl is low and fond. Babe laughs.

"She sounds like a dream. Tell me,"

The door opens and clicks closed as Gene stares at the cigarette frozen halfway to Babe's lips. Joe smashes his cigarette out on the bedpan and makes it two feet back to bed before Gene catches him. Most of Gene's threats are lost in thick, angry French and accented English. Babe can't help but laugh as Gene helps Joe hobble back to bed and Joe glances back at Babe with a sigh like he's heard this lecture before.

"I oughta call the doctor in here to have a word with you two," Gene is saying. "Joe Liebgott, I would think you would have more sense to be smoking in a hospital. Especially a hospital that you are admitted into for _smoke inhalation_. I thought they taught firefighters basic medical in the academy."

Joe shrugs as Gene tucks him back into bed, "I mean,"

"I don't wanna hear it," Gene snaps. "We have oxygen tanks in this room, Mr Liebgott. If I feel like I need to, I will have to speak to the local _fire department_ about this fire hazard I've witnessed in my hospital."

Gene is across the room in a snap, snagging Babe's still-lit cigarette out of his hands. He sees ash in the bedpan and grits his teeth holding back a tirade.

Against his better judgement, Babe says, "You look like you need a cigarette, Gene."

Gene freezes, looking ready to bite Babe's head off, then he takes a quick drag from Babe's cigarette before pinching it down on the bedpan. Joe shares an impressed and giddy look with Babe as Gene snaps the curtain between them closed. He picks up the pan.

Babe wants to laugh until he sees the strict look on Gene's face directed solely at him. 

"Heffron, do I really need to explain to you why you shouldn't be smoking in a hospital. In your condition."

Babe chokes, "no, sir."

Gene's pager beeps and Babe breathes a sigh of relief.

"You don't have to call me Heffron, by the way. My friend's call my Babe."

Gene must not hear him, because he does not look up from his pager when he leaves. Gene still leaves the door open a crack.

Joe does not make any noise on the other side of the room to distract Babe from the fact that he can only wait up, watching the clock. Babe blinks at the sawdust in his eyes and wonders how long the drugs will be in his system and if he will be in a deep, too-real France again if he blinks one more time. The thought sends a chill up his spine, and hears his monitors click away as the hair on his arms raise.

Babe tries to keep at least one eye open at a time as he blinks.


End file.
